The Greek's Pregnant Bride

‘Show me what?’

He straightened his shirt, then turned back to face her. ‘I’ll take you to meet her. You can see for yourself why I don’t want my mother anywhere near our wedding.’

* * *

The car came to a stop outside an immaculate two-storey house in a quiet Athenian suburb.

No sooner had the engine been turned off than Christian got out, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door for him.

The entire drive had been conducted in silence, Christian sitting ramrod-straight, only the whiteness of his knuckles betraying what lay beneath his skin.

It was a demeanour Alessandra had never seen from him before. It unnerved her.

That he’d cancelled his first appointment of the day had unnerved her even more; that, and the grim way he’d said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’

that she followed him

door, lines all over her weathered face, her thin lips

back inside, leaving

pristine, a strong smell

it. What could have been a beautiful home was nothing but a carcass,

English, she made a good show of hiding it. She made no show of hiding her disdain for Alessandra, refusing her hand when Christian introduced them, and looking through her when Alessandra said, ‘Hárika ya tin gnorimía,’— ‘pleased to meet you’—a phrase she’d practised with the girl who’d brought breakfast

gathered together in the immaculate kitchen, where the stench of bleach was even stronger. No refreshments were

replied, his answers were short but measured. At one point he seemed to be the one doing the talking rather than the listening, his words making Elena dart her blue eyes to the stranger in the midst, a sneer forming on her

years, Alessandra had never sat in such a poisonous atmosphere as

unhinged in Elena Markos’s demeanour. Her eyes were the same blue as Christian’s

skin feel as icy as Elena’s eyes. But Christian

any wonder Christian eschewed any form of emotional entanglement when this

for guts and determination but had not appreciated